Heat of the Night

She's lying in bed at night, the covers thrown back because it's so hot, her damp, stringy curls tossed across a pale ivory pillow. Heat of the night. She hears crickets chirping outside, a summery rhythm that makes her want to jump out of bed and go dance barefoot in the grass, but she lies still, breathing calmly. She's thinking.

Just above her, she knows, her brother sleeps, and so does the Boy Who Lived. She thinks about how different they are, and how similar. How Ron is taller, how Harry is quieter, how they're both brave and loyal and real Gryffindors. She wanted to be like them when she was little, and her other brothers, too. Charming like Bill and sweet like Charlie and clever like Percy and funny like Fred and George. But all she got was the diary and the knowledge that she would go down in history as the girl who was possessed by Tom Riddle. The silly little girl.

She thinks about Tom. His words. His voice. His eyes, the way he looked at her and the pale light of the Chamber of Secrets reflected in his dead eyes, ghost eyes, for he was dead and only his memory lived on. The way he touched her, took her life as she cried out, for more and for the end. She runs her hands over her slender, pale body and thinks about Tom who killed her and Harry who brought her back to life. Her touch is nothing like Tom's. She wonders what it would feel like if Harry touched her.

She thinks about the other boys. Michael Corner, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan. The girls - a secret tryst with Padma Patil behind a statue on the sixth floor and a stolen kiss from Hermione a few nights ago. They all promised not to tell. She thinks about the time that she and Luna Lovegood played when they were children, before they went to school, before stereotypes and Houses separated them and she became possessed and Luna became loony. She remembers the day when they went swimming together, then took off their knickers to dry in the sun and looked at each other's childish bodies and giggled. She doesn't think that Luna remembers. Maybe she does. It doesn't matter.

She thinks about the others. There haven't been many. She had a crush on Remus Lupin in her second year - a schoolgirl crush that she still harbors within herself, but if she ever acted on it, her mother would give her hell. She had a crush on Sirius Black, too, but he was dead and Harry was grieving and she couldn't find the words to say that she was sorry, that she missed him too. Then there were the Malfoys - rich, snotty bastards, but beautiful to a fault. Thought they owned everything and everyone. She came upon Draco snogging Blaise Zabini once in the Owlery, and made him kiss her so she wouldn't tell. Blaise was from a poor family, after all, and Lucius wouldn't approve. She still remembers the jealous flash in Blaise's eyes as she skipped down the stairs, giggling.

Silly girl. She was just a silly girl. What did she know? She turns over and listens to Hermione's calm breathing on the cot beside her. She wants to touch Hermione's hand but the ghoul in the attic clanks menacingly and she thinks better of it. She kicks her leg off of the bed and buries her nose into the pillow and falls asleep to the rhythmic chirp of the crickets and dreams of quick touches and hungry kisses and schoolgirl skirts and boyish hands. Heat of the night.